


Time Out

by TruebornAlpha



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Groundhog's Day, M/M, Post-Season 4, Sciles, Sciles Minibang 2014, Teen Wolf, Teen Wolf Canon Divergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-30 15:26:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3941875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TruebornAlpha/pseuds/TruebornAlpha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> </p>
  <p>    <img/><br/></p>
</div>The worst day of Stiles’s life was a Tuesday. He woke up late, but was still early enough for two pop quizzes. His lunch winked at him, goddammit, and Finstock was predictably terrible. The worst day of Stiles’s life was a Tuesday. It was the day he lost his best friend. Today is Tuesday. But yesterday was Tuesday, too.
            </blockquote>





	Time Out

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written by [Tmautog/Dans](http://nevertrustastilesthing.tumblr.com/) for the 2014 Sciles Minibang and beta'd by [Truebornalpha](http://runicscribbles.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Thank you to [Pterawaters](http://pterawaters.tumblr.com/) for the awesome fanmix!
> 
>  

**_[Download Fanmix Here](https://www.dropbox.com/s/lyygzo0ite14skb/Time%20Out%20Fanmix.zip?dl=0) _ **

 

The worst day of Stiles’ life was a Tuesday.

It started off bad. He slept through his alarm clock, which was bad, and he slept through his dad yelling at him, which was worse. The Sheriff brought out the big guns: the Super Soakers. Stiles couldn’t stuff his face with Cheerios fast enough to miss the accident on Main St., or the traffic that it caused. Pop quizzes waited for him in Algebra and History. Worst of all, they had vegetable loaf for lunch, like the powers that be had conspired to make his life suck. At least Lydia had the good sense to not be at school. She was a million, billion miles away, fighting off a terrible cold, migraine and all the other symptoms of (being exposed to her inferiors) a virus.

Even practice sucked more so than usual. Stiles was not above telling that to everyone who dared slow down long enough to listen.

“Cheer up, Buttercup,” Scott said, remarkably composed for a guy who’d spent the last hour running suicides. Stiles looked up at him with disdain, from where he was busy huffing and puffing and crying in pain, starfished on the warm grass.

“You’re gross,” Scott added helpfully. Stiles dry-heaved on his shoes.

“You’re gross,” Stiles parroted, about two octaves higher. Scott’s arms hooked under his armpits and dragged him to his feet. Stiles was reluctantly pleased that he had friends who knew when to ignore him. “Is it over yet? Is it - do I have permission to die?”

“Keep it down, dude. Finstock might get ideas.”

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Dude, I told you not to eat that loaf. Lunch isn’t supposed to look at you.”

“So sick.” But Scott started rubbing his belly, so Stiles closed his eyes and thought about an educational system that didn’t exist to hurt him. Peace didn’t last long.

“Guys, it’s Parrish,” Kira said, fresh-faced and hydrated from the side-lines, already halfway through packing away her gear. If Coach asked, she and Scott would probably run another gazillion laps around the field. “Something’s going on at the Preserve.”

Stiles hated everyone.

 

* * *

 

 

“Well at least it’s just a phantom,” Stiles said later, in the safety of Scott’s room after a quick recon. “What!”

“Dude, it’s still a phantom.” Scott reprimanded. He waited a beat, then begrudgingly admitted, “At least they don’t bathe in the blood of virgins or anything?”

Stiles cackled. Scott let him. “It’s an open-n-shut case. Liam’s gonna lure it out. We’ve got the mountain ash barrier, and those LV darts, and we’re golden. All we gotta do is make sure Liam doesn’t crap his baby jammies, and we’ll be fine.”

Scott was making his ‘Liam is a valued pack member’ face again, so Stiles twisted his titty, and their super serious post-prep meeting discussion dissolved into giggles and WWF-worthy wrestling moves.

“Hey, I’m not gonna be the one to pick him out of phantom-y teeth this time.”

Scott sighed dramatically, but he didn’t let up, only too happy to pin Stiles. He used every ounce of werewolf muscle to aggressively squish the human into surrender. Scott was a familiar weight by now, one that tempted Stiles too much, one that made him want to wind his arms around his best friend’s waist and demand he turn around so they could - something. Stiles was still working on it. He’d figure it out when he was less busy laughing.

“Fine I’ll bring the toothpick this time.”

Then Scott turned around and farted in his mouth.

 

* * *

 

They had a plan, and while they weren’t convinced the phantom would stick to script, they were sure they could improvise their way to success. They had never been so wrong.

The mountain ash line broke. No one ever got to the darts. Stiles watched as thin air begot vicious claws that sliced through flesh and bone. Their pack was less than ten paces away, still picking each other off the ground. The bones in Malia’s legs knit together with sickening cracks as she tried to push herself to her feet. Stiles hovered over Liam’s unmoving body, jokes long gone, and Parrish was nowhere to be seen. Kira stood before the monster, the metal on her katana sizzling, covered with caustic ichor. She favored her left side too much, and her expression was grim. Stiles’ hip throbbed, but fear kept him paralyzed. Someone had to get to her. She was too far away.

“Come on,” she hissed, knuckles white, teeth bared. All she needed was to buy her friends some time. That’s all they needed. The thing turned its unfocused eyes towards her, and for the first time, something sparked behind its gaze.

The Alpha bowled into it from behind, claws outstretched, tearing through flesh and bone. Kira yelled, running into the fray, moving like her sword had a mind of its own. For a second, everything looked like it was going to be okay. Scott never got a chance to scream. His spine curved in a graceful arch, surprise splattered across his cheeks as freely as blood. He was gone before he hit the ground.

The worst day of Stiles’ life was a Tuesday.

It was the day he lost his best friend and the sky filled with lightning so bright, it matched the mood.

 

* * *

 

“It’s my fault,” Kira whispered, voice choked with emotion. “He was trying to protect me. If he’d -”

Stiles hated how wet it sounded. He didn’t want to listen, but it wasn’t much better than listening to the thrashing in the next room, the sound of metal and wood bending and splintering as Liam raged with the force of Alpha strength he couldn’t control and had never wanted. He tore apart the clinic’s storage room, while Deaton reinforced his shields. Liam hadn’t stopped crying. This wasn’t supposed to happen. None of it made sense. This wasn’t going to happen.

He buried his face in his hands and willed it all to move away. Lydia was pacing, wrapped in a jacket too thick for summer. Malia hadn’t said a word since the fight ended, but she pressed closer to the kitsune’s side. It was hard to say who she was trying to comfort.

That evening, Kira showed Zeus how to use a lightning bolt. The phantom had retreated deeper into the woods, but the damage was already none. They just didn’t know how badly until the night was still. The world kept turning. There was a new trending on Twitter. Across town, someone made it to work just in time. Stiles didn’t know how he was still breathing, or why.

“Did anyone call Melissa?”

Stiles didn’t remember much after that. He didn’t want to. His throat hurt, and he was sure he’d been screaming. Someone must have taken him home. He couldn’t get his Dad’s face out of his head, but it was better than reliving Scott’s fall, reliving the stench of blood and how warm his skin was. There were a thousand things Hollywood never said about death, about how it was messy and shameful. How quickly it was over. His clock read 11:52 PM, and Scott would never get the chance to see 11:53. Heat welled behind his eyes until Stiles couldn’t take it anymore. His bedroom echoed with muffled cries, but he could pretend, just for a moment longer that they weren’t his.

 

* * *

 

“You’re going to be late, Stiles!”

The rapping on his door woke him faster than his blaring alarm, and all Stiles could do was stare. The sun was still shining. Birds were chirping. Nothing had changed.

“If you don’t get up in the next ten seconds, I’m coming up!”

It gutted him in ways Stiles was embarrassed to admit. A ride on a Tilt-a-Whirl couldn’t make him this nauseous this quick. His Dad couldn’t expect him to go to school after last night, right? Was there some kind of mourning protocol Stiles was ignoring? He still sat up, banging on the floor with his heel. The front door closed, and he could hear his father driving away. Scott’s copy of Whitefang was by his foot, and Stiles tore through the room like it was on fire. He should have asked his Dad to stay.

The drive to school took too long. There was an accident on Main, and inching through crowded streets gave him something to concentrate on. Stiles didn’t know where else he should have been or where he could go. Then he got to school and didn’t want to be anywhere else.

On the front steps of Beacon Hills High, Scott McCall was waiting for him. Stiles nearly ran him over. They both screamed.

Stiles was out of his Jeep before he could blink, launching himself at his best friend. Scott stumbled backwards, dropping his backpack and helmet as he crashed into the school’s double-doors. The only thing keeping them standing was werewolf grace and a shit-ton of luck, and Stiles sobbed. It was a shameful, broken thing, but he couldn’t stop the way it tore through him. It was too early to be this tired, and he should have been so much more careful. But the one person who broke all his rules had always been Scott. Stiles wasn’t ready to let go.

“Dude…” Annoyance faded from the Alpha’s face. Tracking Stiles’ pulse came as easy as breathing by now. His eyes flashed red, only for a moment, as he searched their surroundings for anything that could have thrown Stiles off so badly. The closest that came to it was the parking monitor, who tutted at his Jeep. The sidewalk was not a parking spot.

“Stiles,” he whispered, rubbing his hands up and down his best friend’s back. “What’s going on? Are you okay? Come on, I’ll help you move Roscoe.”

Stiles held on tighter. He handed over the keys without a word, and that set off red flags even faster than Stiles’ red-rimmed eyes. Both student lots were filled, but Scott didn’t care. He let the Jeep obnoxiously take up half the road. He’d give Stiles as much time as he needed. The brunette was looking at his hands like he’d never seen them before.

“You died last night.”

Scott hadn’t given himself enough time. He slammed on the brakes, even if Roscoe had been going at 10 miles an hour. Stiles jerked forward. His face scrunched up like he was in pain, but all he could manage was a tired mumble. “And I thought… It was so real, Scott. So fucking real. I didn’t know what to do, and I thought… I really thought - I should’ve checked, but you were gone, and everything was wrong. I couldn’t stay at home. Everything there reminded me of you, and it was so fucked up -“

“Hey…” Scott interrupted, carefully taking Stiles hand and smoothing his fingers out of the fist they tried to make. He leaned across the center console and pulled him into a bone crushing hug. It was easier to pretend that his pulse wasn’t doing double time when he had Stiles tucked under his chin and the handbrake digging into his thigh. “I’m okay. We’re okay. It was just a dream.”

He didn’t expect Stiles to cry. It had been years since Scott had seen him like this. He’d hoped he’d ever have to again.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

They stayed like that for a long time. Even the parking monitor seemed to get the idea.

They were twenty minutes late for their first class. Stiles seemed to have trouble finding his feet, but it was hard to walk when you were hip-to-hip with someone. “Hey dude, not there,” Scott reminded, before Stiles could walk into the wrong room. “We have algebra on Tuesdays… You sure you don’t want to go home?”

It was just a nightmare.

Stiles was ready to forget about it, until he couldn’t.

 

* * *

 

“Guys, it’s Parrish,” Kira said. “Something’s going on at the Preserve.”

“No!” Stiles yelled. Their teammates turned to stare, at least, those who weren’t too exhausted to move did. “No you can’t!”

“Stiles, what’s wrong?” Kira started to ask as Stiles started gasping, and all the color drained out of Kira’s face. Scott shook his head, quietly placating her, but he didn’t have to think about wrapping himself around Stiles. It was easy, easier than it should have been maybe.

“Go ahead. Pick up Malia, and see if Lydia’s feeling better? We’ll catch up.”

Stiles didn’t wait for her to leave.

“You can’t,” he hissed, and Scott tried not to think about carrying him. Stiles was made of long, wiggling limbs and had broader shoulders than him, but werewolf strength was so useful. The thought still strayed, slipping through his mind without his consent. “Scott, you can’t. What if?”

“It was just a dream, dude. I’m here.” If Scott thought he was leaving, he was hilarious, really fucking hilarious, but Scott was carding his fingers through Stiles’ hair, and Stiles never knew he wanted that.

“Scott please,” Stiles managed to grit out. Scott ran hot like a furnace. Everything he wanted to say caught on his throat. Stiles couldn’t do it again. He couldn’t lose him. He didn’t think it would hurt so badly or that waking up could drain so much.

“I’ll be careful, Stiles. We can’t just leave it,” Scott reassured him. He never thought he’d have to tell that to the boy who thought dead bodies were the best sort of prize. “It’ll be okay.”

It wasn’t.

Stiles lost everything that mattered and couldn’t stop screaming. No one heard him, not with Liam howling, succumbing to strength he couldn’t control, or the crackle of electricity that lit up the sky. Kira looked like she’d been gutted, but power ripped through her skin as if she was her own storm. The phantom fled, and all Stiles wished he could forget was the glassy gleam in Scott’s eyes.

 

* * *

 

Stiles was in a cold, plastic chair when he came to. The animal clinic was quiet. The muted sounds of the new Alpha of the McCall pack thrashing in a supply closet filtered in from what felt like a million miles away. Malia was hunched over Kira like she was trying to force her to remain seated, but the kitsune had gone eerily still. Lydia paced in a thick woolen coat, dark bags under her eyes and features ashen, doing her best to fight off a virus, and Stiles’ head throbbed with every tap of her sandals.

“It’s my fault,” Kira started, and Stiles couldn’t take it anymore.

“I saw this happen.” He interrupted, and all eyes were on him. “I dreamed it. I knew it would. I told him not to go, and he’s dead.”

No one asked how, or why. No one asked for an explanation or a solution. Stiles didn’t know if he’d be able to answer them, but he wanted them to ask. He wanted an excuse to scream and rage because it was obviously doing Liam so much good, but he didn’t have the strength to. Someone had carved out his chest, taking everything inside him that mattered, and he didn’t know how he was still breathing when Scott - wasn’t.

“Did anyone call Melissa?” Lydia dared ask. When Stiles doubled over in tears, they looked away. He would have thanked them for it if he could string together a coherent sentence. Maybe screaming would have been better than this. He was already tired of crying.

Lydia took him home, eventually. Melissa was on her way, and Deaton looked too worn for someone who’d only fought an Alpha werewolf. Stiles couldn’t stay there. He owed it to Scott after everything, after a lifetime together, after being the first person to choose to stay with him and the only one Stiles never had to doubt. Without Scott - there was no without Scott. Stiles couldn’t remember a without him.

Lydia let him run, but he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t a coward.

“Is this what it’s like to be a banshee?” He asked, and the look on Lydia’s face chilled him to the bone. Her car smelled like some sort of flower, and he didn’t understand how there could be so little junk in it. She clutched her steering wheel so tightly, Stiles was sure it would dent, but when she spoke, there was a ragged quality in her voice he’d never heard before.

“You’re going to wake up tomorrow and reach for your phone to call him, to choreograph your plaid or copy his homework, and maybe you’ll dial his number and it’ll go to voicemail, and you’ll realize that’s the last time you’re going to hear his voice without being a freak. Except he’d never think you were a freak, and you’re still going to have to get out of bed to stop the monster that killed him. That’s what it’s like to be a banshee.”

No one wanted to speak much after that. They could start a club: Former Humans who Predicted Their Best Friend’s Deaths Only.

 

* * *

 

Stiles woke to his father pounding in his door, and he was out of bed before he could catch himself. His lungs were on fire and he was choking on smoke, but he was already running, taking two stairs at a time and nearly falling over his own feet. “Dad!” He screamed, but by the time he was out the door, the Sheriff’s car was turning down the block. Stiles stared down their street like it would come back, and he was pretty sure he left his knees upstairs.

His phone said it was Tuesday. Stiles wasn’t doing this again.

Small and distant on the other end of the line, Scott’s voice just sounded so good. “Stiles? Stiles? Dude, is this your butt…? Stiles?”

Stiles laughed, low in his throat but shrill all the same, because if he didn’t, he’d end up crying.

“I miss you,” Came out before he could stop himself. Scott quieted. “There’s something going on dude. You gotta come over.”

He finally got Scott to skip school, and all it took was the end of Stiles’ world.

 

* * *

 

Scott would have normally cracked some joke or a quick slap between the shoulder blades like bros always did, but the fear in Stiles’s voice was genuine and if his friend needed him, he’d be there without question. He came in just in time to miss a pop quiz in Algebra. It still didn’t make listening to the story any easier to believe. “Hold up, you’re saying you’re living some kind of Groundhog’s Day where I keep dying at the end? Stiles… Dude, I know things have been pretty stressful lately, but maybe you’re just having a bad dream. I don’t want to sound like I don’t believe you on this, I totally get that it’s real to you and it’s terrifying, but I’m not dead.”

“You said that yesterday!” Stiles wanted to laugh. They were sitting too close, and every time he moved, he felt Scott. His Dad once told him that watching him speak tired him out, and Stiles used that against Scott now, taking a million chances to brush up against his best friend, bumping his shoulder, touching his arm, making sure his back was still strong and whole. Scott was close enough that Stiles could feel his breath on his cheek, and Stiles had to beat back the urge to pull him into his lap twice. That didn’t make the idea any less appealing. “You know what? Fine. Call Kira after Algebra. She’ll tell you we had a pop quiz. The first question is on trinomials, the - the fourth’s on slope intercepts, and Lydia’s home sick with a cold.”

His chest was heaving with effort. He didn’t realize he’d grabbed both of Scott’s hands. Stiles looked at them now, fascinated but determined, and if Scott thought he was going to get them back in the next ten minutes, he was in for a surprise. “I am not losing you again, Scott. So you’re just gonna have to deal.”

Scott looked at him like Stiles was a puzzle that needed to be solved, but all Stiles wanted to do was smooth back the lines on his brow. It was too easy, easier than it should have been to reach up. He brushed his knuckles against Scott’s cheek, following a curve just beneath the beauty mark under Scott’s eye. Stiles was fascinated by the feel of skin on skin, and when he was done, he didn’t want to be done. Scott tensed, like he’d just stopped himself from pulling away, but he still twined his hand against Stiles’. If Stiles needed one hour, Scott could do that. Scott was willing to do a lot more, if it meant keeping the people he cared about safe.

“Okay, dude… Okay. We’ll call, and if it’s nothing, we both go to class, and you owe me lunch.”

“Can we skip History? Got a quiz there, too.” Stiles grumbled.

“Man, today sucks.” Scott could still get Stiles to crack a smile. He counted that as a win. He squeezed Stiles’ hand, and Stiles squeezed back before they sentenced themselves to the least competitive round of Brawl since ever. The only person who wished Stiles was wrong more than Scott was Stiles.

 

* * *

 

“What do you remember about - yesterday?” Deaton asked, taking the news with as much grace as they expected. Scott and Stiles shared a glance as they wondered, for the sake of argument, how many times the vet must have heard something similar in his long and undoubtedly exciting life. If he sold his autobiography to Hollywood, they could probably get Idris Elba to star. Stiles would watch it.

“Before the phantom attack? Not much. It was just a really shitty day. Parrish found it,” Stiles shrugged. That should have been his first warning. “We had everything planned out, mountain ash trap and you said you had these darts with that la-letharia vulpina, plant shit. But it broke the mountain ash line, and it just…”

He trailed off. It took him too long to recount the cold rush of air and terrified howls, how Kira split the sky with light. Then Scott never got back up.

“Then that wouldn’t be a typical phantom,” Deaton decided. “And we’ll be working with the assumption that it is what’s causing these, replays, for lack of a better word, if there was nothing new you noticed.”

He and Scott shared a look. “No, nothing. I think Scott should stay as far away from it as possible.”

“Dude - !”

“Maybe we can drive to Arizona for a week. I’m okay with that.” Stiles bulldozed on. They’d been planning a road trip since they sneaked into the cinemas to watch Harold and Kumar’s greatest adventure, and even if Scott liked the Christmas Special, Stiles was perfectly fine with taking him far, far away for as long as it took to shoot the phantom in the head.

“Dude, we can’t just leave everyone,” Scott tried again, expression stern and distinctly not amused, but overladen with concern he never tried to disguise. Stiles was going to roll him into a carpet, lock him in the trunk of his Jeep and take him to Canada - or Mexico; he didn’t have that much gas money for Canada anyway.

“You can’t leave. We still need to figure out why you’re the one who keeps experiencing these repeats, Stiles,” Deaton said, and Stiles was pretty sure he was being placated, except Mexico wasn’t getting any closer.

“Stiles,” Scott said, like that was a complete sentence, like he could just get Stiles to listen, like Stiles didn’t know how to spike his favorite drinks, and Stiles folded like a house of cards.

“Scott’s not going into the forest,” he argued, gripping his best friend’s shoulder like he thought Scott wanted to start an expedition. If he needed to keep him trapped, there were drugs in the clinic, and if he threw enough at Scott something was bound to work, or Stiles would mountain ash the Hell out of him. He would do something. “Scott’s not going to be anywhere near the Phantom and that’s it, end of story. No.”

Scott looked at him the same way he did when Stiles threatened to hold his breath until he passed out, except they weren’t five anymore, and Scott was so much better at holding his heart hostage.

"Then we find another way to trap it,” Scott said, matter-of-fact like he wasn’t staring down his own death, and Stiles wondered if Scott had gotten so used to the view that he’d stopped caring. There was always going to be another way. Losing Scott wasn’t an option.

 

* * *

 

“Could you stop watching the clock, dude?” Scott asked, a lot less irritated than he should have been, and on screen, RoboCop demanded to see his wife. Scott’s hand was so warm on his shoulder, it was practically on fire, and Stiles had never turned so readily. He rolled in and refused to regret it, shoving his face into his best friend’s neck because it was better than explaining that he just wanted Scott to see 11:53. “They’re gonna call as soon as something happens, Stiles.”

Stiles’ leg was twitching. It had been twitching since he sat down. At one point, Scott put a mug of hot chocolate on it, like it would help mix in his marshmallows. Stiles got to eat the last cookie. It wasn’t helping him now.

“How are you not freaking out?!” Stiles snapped, and regretted it immediately, when Scott tried to pull away. He reached out blindly, finding the other boy’s arm, and for one frantic moment, Stiles considered super-gluing their skin together. That would show Scott. Then Scott pulled away, just far enough that he could twine their fingers together, and Stiles held on until his knuckles went white. Scott’s arm draped over his shoulders like they’d done a thousand times before, and Stiles was forced to think about all the things he didn’t know he would miss, the little stupid things like how Scott slurped his spaghetti and let Stiles steal off his plate, how everything in his closet had been washed at the McCalls’ at one point, and how nice Scott’s hands felt.

“You’re freaking out enough for the both of us?” Scott tried. Stiles punched him, but only a little.

“Dude, shut up. I’m trying to keep you alive. No matter what. If that means running then -”

“My life isn’t worth endangering anyone else’s Stiles.”

“Yes it is, Scott. YES IT IS! Don’t you get it? I can’t do this without you! I can’t lose you again!”

His own anger surprised Stiles. By the looks of it, it surprised Scott as well. Stiles tensed, wishing he could take it back, but Scott’s phone rang, breaking up the silence. Malia needed help. The phantom had broken free. There was no sign of Deputy Parrish. Kira was hurt, and they were driving into town fast.

Nothing could keep Scott from going, and Stiles barely remembered offering him everything. They took the Jeep, destroying the speed limit. The phantom had bright yellow eyes, cold and impossibly empty. There was a slash of claws, insubstantial and yet somehow real. A spray of warm blood across his body and screaming, someone was screaming like they’d never stop. It reached into their home, broke through their pillow fort defenses and the world fell apart around them. Death wasn’t letting them go. Stiles was still screaming when he bolted out of bed, drenched in sweat with his father shaking his shoulders.

  
“Stiles, Stiles!”

But all Stiles could do was launch himself at his father, hugging him as tight as he could manage. There wasn’t enough air to breathe, an immense weight crushing his lungs, but Scott was gone. Nothing could save him, and Stiles was out of tears to cry.

 

* * *

 

“So they aren’t dreams?” Deaton said, again. Because there was an accident on Main St., again. Lydia had the flu, again. Scott held him like he never wanted Stiles to fall apart. Again.

Stiles looked up at him sadly. “No? I don’t know, but everything’s happening again, and I’m fucking tired of Scott dying. It’s not a typical phantom, and we’ve had this conversation before. We’re running out of time!”

“Stiles.”

Scott’s hand was heavy on his shoulder, but Stiles didn’t have to think before leaning into it, burying his face in his best friend’s neck. He missed the broken expression on Scott’s face. His fist banged against his chest. “Why can’t you just run?” The human hissed, shoulders hitching with effort. “Why couldn’t you just - just…”

Scott was like a human furnace, wonderfully warm and impossibly gentle. Stiles let himself be rocked, and his fingers curled around the hem of Scott’s shirt. If this was Hell, if this was some disease, if this was a supernatural trap - Stiles wondered if he was willing to trade for it. It didn’t matter what happened every night, as long as Scott was with him in the morning because he didn’t have a future without him. He couldn’t even imagine one.

“Not a phantom,” the alpha repeated carefully, trying not to shiver as long fingers traced along his lower back, where his shirt rode up to tease a sliver of smooth skin, but Stiles wouldn’t stop touching him. “But why Stiles? He’s human.”

“Human and proud since that asshole,” came from the vicinity of Scott’s chest. Stiles refused to let go, and Scott wasn’t apt to push him away.

“I have a theory.” Deaton started. “But before I share with the class, there are a few details I need to check. In the meantime, it’s important that we keep Stiles and Kira away from this - not phantom.”

“Kira?”

“If it is the Nogitsune’s work, well, he used her power to come into this world. It’s not a stretch to assume he’d do it again.”

“Then we have to warn her,” Scott decided. “And we find another way to trap it.”

Stiles slumped in his chair, like he was trying to get to the floor.

 

* * *

 

Scott let Stiles buy him lunch. It meant ducking patrol cars and extra grease and probably being nagged about returning the favor for the rest of his life, but for the first time since they left the clinic, Stiles looked calm again. Maybe it was just the smell of extra-large curly fries, super greasy burgers, and strawberry milkshakes to match, but Scott would take it.

“The one on top doesn’t have onions,” Stiles said, when they finally made it home. Killing time watching old Star Trek reruns sounded like a good plan. Stiles even said he was going to give in a sincere try this time around, and Scott wanted to see how long he’d get through the first episode before he got huffy. It was a good way to pass the time while waiting for his doom.

Scott hadn’t called his mother. He thought a lot about it. As much as he hated to admit it, things had gone wrong in a time he couldn’t remember, many times, but that wasn’t something he wanted to mention in front of his best friend, not now when he needed reassurances the most.

Scott stole a couple of fries. Stiles was okay enough to glare at him. Scott just took a few more. His burger was just as good as he needed it to be. He sneaked furtive glances at the other boy, inching closer and closer. They’d never been good at keeping personal space, but the way Stiles would sigh and his shoulders slumped, like all the tension was leaking out of him, made Scott want to move even closer.

“Stiles… You know we’re going to be okay, right?” The wolf dared, his fingers gently curling around his best friend’s wrist. Something sparked under his skin, leaving his cheeks flushed with warmth. Scott’s head spun, for just a moment, and he shoved the rest of his meal into his mouth.

“Arizona out of the question, dude?” Stiles piped up.

“What?”

“In another - I asked you once, if you’d run away to Arizona with me. We could take that road trip, like we always wanted.”

Stiles shivered under Scott’s gaze, as if he was seeing it for the first time. He wondered if his best friend had always looked at him like that, openly fond and impossibly warm. He watched his alpha sway, and slipped in closer, hooking an arm around Scott’s waist. Scott rested his head on Stiles’ shoulder, letting out a huff of a laugh.

“Tomorrow dude, we can go. Really! I’ll take a day off and everything. Besides, your day’s kinda…sucked. Stiles?”

Scott’s eyelids were never supposed to be this heavy. He couldn’t blink them open. They were just… They were so…

“I thought so, dude.”

Stiles’ voice was right by his ear. The last thing Scott knew before he fell unconscious was how far away his friend’s pulse was.

 

* * *

 

Scott woke with his arms trapped behind his back, his legs bound, and a gag lodged firmly behind his teeth. At least the sock Stiles used was clean.

It felt like every pillow in the house had been dragged down. Scott was swimming in them, and it should have been funny. It should have been hilarious, but Stiles wouldn’t stop ringing his hands. Scott screamed around a mouth full of cotton, his jaw aching, only to have Stiles reach out to him. Long fingers curled around his nape. The basement television played in the background. Scott noticed the mountain ash barrier for the first time.

“I’m sorry.”

Stiles wanted to laugh. What came easiest with Scott was always concern. Annoyance was a close second. Anger would come. He still couldn’t stop himself from holding on. He stroked down the line of his best friend’s throat. There was a pit where his stomach used to be, but this was the only choice. This was the only path that made sense.

“Agrimony - just a little. Ground up? Got some from Deaton’s. He won’t even know. Your mom works a double today, and I know. I mean. I mean?” Stiles didn’t know what he meant, but he rested their foreheads together, warm breath fanning over Scott’s skin. He exhaled like it hurt him to, choking back another sob. Careful fingers caressed Scott’s cheek, like Stiles could commit this moment to memory.

“I can’t lose you.” The simplest truths hit the hardest, and Stiles was stunned silent. Beautiful brown eyes went wide, and the werewolf jerked in his restraints. Stiles just shook his head. “I need you. I don’t know how to do any of this without you. I don’t know how to live without you and I don’t wanna learn. And I didn’t know that Scott. I didn’t know how badly…”

The words caught in his throat, and Stiles brushed his thumb over the gag, tracing the curve of his best friend’s lips. It was so easy to lean closer, so easy to brush his mouth against Scott’s. The wolf tensed. But he didn’t pull away.

“I don’t know if this’ll work. I don’t wanna do this without you. We’re supposed to do this together,” Stiles confessed, but his voice got softer and softer, like they were trading secrets. “But this time it’s for your own good. Not like - not like you’re trying to eat me. I think I love you.”

Stiles tripped over himself to escape. “Don’t worry, dude, you can sock me for that tomorrow.” He laughed, loud and strained, touching his lips like he was in a daze. Scott never saw 11:53. “Tomorrow. Okay? Tomorrow.”

His phone rang, but Stiles just turned the television up louder, taking the stairs out of the basement two at a time. Scott could still focus enough to hear him say, “Hey Dr. D, Scott’s out back, what’s up…?”

Then the door closed with a snap. Captain Jean-Luc Picard judged him on screen.

Scott was sure his heart had stopped. He struggled against his ropes, but the effort felt halfhearted. Stiles was panicking. It was clear as day. The ropes around his wrists itched something fierce. Scott rolled on his back, tuning out the adventures on the Stargazer, even if his head felt empty. Shifting was a calculated, precise move, but it came too slowly. Scott cut his mouth on his fangs, trying to chew through his gag, but his restraints fell away soon enough. When he threw his heel against the barrier of mountain ash it shimmered blue, and pushed against him with just as much for as he gave.

But Stiles loved him. Stiles loved him, and everywhere they’d touched still prickled. There wasn’t a world where Scott would leave him alone.

“Stiles! Stiles!” He still had hope that his best friend would turn back, or that he could somehow hear him. Scott threw himself against the barrier, snarling as his skin was singed and healed over and over again. His best friend was scared and lost. He had been through too much, and he was making rash decisions. Scott wasn’t going to let him down again.

“STILES!”

The barrier gave way, and Scott was up the stairs before the air around it could stop glowing blue. The Jeep wasn’t in the driveway. Deaton was still just a call away.

“Where is he!?” Scott demanded over the line, kicking his bike into gear just as the emissary picked up. There was something more than serenity in Deaton’s voice, and it punched Scott right in the gut.

“Scott, this is something Stiles will have to do himself. The phantom is a Yokai. It’s using him to anchor the Nogitsune’s spell. He needs to break it.”

“He doesn’t have to do it alone.”

Across the town, Liam howled. Scott took off and never looked back. Lightning flashed across the once cloudless sky like he had never seen before. There was an energy in the air that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and when he got to the preserve, the trees glowed.

They were easy to find. The creature was massive, with iridescent skin and a mouthful of fangs. Liam was down. He couldn’t see Malia anywhere, or Parrish, but Kira was the heart of the storm. Kira filled the skies with lightning, as the Yokai crashed against his restraints, slowly splintering its magical prison. It roared as Kira rained sparks down on it, and between them, stuttering out an incantation he was reading on his phone was Stiles. Scott didn’t put his bike in park.

It happened so fast. The air sizzled with electricity. The Yokai lunged, hands outstretched, ready to meet Kira’s katana, Stiles tripping over his own tongue. Then Scott tackled it to the ground. Claws met claws, in a spray of blood. Stiles yelled the incantation’s last syllable, but not before Scott fell to the ground. He didn’t get back up.

 

* * *

 

“It’s my fault. He was trying to protect me.”

“Did anyone call Melissa?”

Stiles held his breath and closed his eyes, and Scott squeezed his hand.

The clock in Deaton’s clinic read 11:53.

 

* * *

 

“So it was after Kira all along,“ Scott filled in, licking pizza grease off of his fingers, as Stiles nodded solemnly beside him.

"Right, I was just like a radio antennae, and you just kept superhero-ing your way into its clutches,” he accused. When Scott tried to protest, he jabbed him in the gut, right over a tightly wound bandage to watch his friend oof and squirm.

“Dude! Watch it! Still stings.” Scott whined, settling back into his throne of pillows. “Deaton says it’s gonna heal funky. It kinda looks like the state of Florida. You should take a look at it. I’m actually gonna have a scar this time.”

Normally funky looking gross things would have made Stiles laugh. This time, when he didn’t, Scott thought twice about reaching out for him. He averted his gaze, but not enough that he missed Stiles picking all the olives off their pizza.

“You still remember the other days…?” The wolf asked softly, picking apart his stuffed crust.

Stiles shrugged. “Kind of. It’s fading, getting messed up, but, yeah. Still do.”

“But you’re going to forget it.”

Stiles shrugged again, this time with a little more force, and he went to collecting the bacon bits next, stuffing them in his face with more concentration than that warranted. That was Scott’s cue to drop it. When silence was Stiles’ only defense, something was terribly wrong.

“Do you want to forget everything?”

“You jumped in front of a demon thing that murdered you three times to save me!” Stiles snapped. How could he forget everything? How could he forget how much the wolf meant to him, when he did dumb things like that?! Scott just shrugged, smiling like he was actually trying to show off his dimples, and Stiles smacked him for good measure. The alpha winced, and it looked sincere. Good.

"I’ll always do that, Stiles. You know that. No matter what. We’ll always be us.” Except Scott was doing the smiley thing again. He had to stop. He had to know that he was making Stiles’ heart do back-flips. Scott thought twice about reaching out for his best friend, but this time, he went the whole way. Stiles leaned into him, tucking Scott under his arm. It was like Scott was built to be fit there. Stiles couldn’t imagine letting go.

“Got one more question.”

“You got a lot of those today, butt breath, ow!”

“Do I get to kiss you back this time?”

The worst day of Stiles’ life was a Tuesday, but Wednesday wasn’t looking to be so bad. 


End file.
